


Beginner's Studies (The Baker Street Remix)

by EmmaDeMarais



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaDeMarais/pseuds/EmmaDeMarais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life lessons based on 'All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginner's Studies (The Baker Street Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Beginner's Studies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/146894) by [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/pseuds/Jain). 



> Section headings taken from 'All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten' by Robert Fulghum.

**Share everything.**

"I suppose this is as good a time as any to share this with you both, loathe as I am to say it aloud."

John had rarely seen the Scotland Yard detective with his guard down so this moment was clearly important to him.

"You can tell us anything," John said, gesturing between himself and Sherlock. As unconventional as their relationship was - which amounted to sharing Sherlock when he was around and commiserating together when he went off and disappeared for long periods of time without a thought as to if they'd worry - they did care for the older man a great deal.

"I just ask that you not let it get around. I mean, I've gone this long making everyone call me by my last name."

"Why all the fuss?" Sherlock interrupted, impatient. "Your first initial has already been leaked: G. Given your discomfort over having a French surname in the British police department, one must assume you've got one of the more overtly French Christian names. Gustav could pass for Germanic or Slavic. Your family's not from Gascony so that rules out all the variants of that name. Guillaume goes poorly with Lestrade and your parents, having short names, were likely to choose a name of no more than four or five letters at most for you as well. Given your socioeconomic status and the popularity of names for the year of your birth, in all likelihood your first name is G-U-Y, pronounced 'Ghee' in the traditional French style, not the 'I' sound with a hard G in front of it like the British use."

They both stared at Sherlock, though John wasn't sure what there was to be surprised at - Sherlock blurted out his findings without consideration for anyone else all the time. This should have been no different.

"I believe," John said finally, "that he was about to reveal something personal about himself as a way of making us feel closer."

"I don't see the fuss," Sherlock scoffed. "You all know my brother Mycroft's first name but that doesn't mean you're sleeping with him."

John rolled his eyes, ignoring Sherlock.

"Please continue."

A nervous cough followed. "Well, as he said... He's right about my name, though I still prefer being called G, like the letter G."

"If that's what you'd like us to call you - in private only of course," John hastened to add. "Then we'll honor that, won't we, Sherlock?"

He gave Sherlock a meaningful glare, one he'd understand the subtext of as 'shut up and just agree, won't you?'

Sherlock straightened himself up.

"Agreed. I shall honor your request." At a kick under the table from John, he continued, forced as the words came out. "Thank you for sharing that with us."

G looked at John, smirking in understanding of what just transpired.

"Apparently he can be trained!"

 

 **Play fair.**

John threw his hands up in the air.

"How is it that I'm always called in to play mediator?"

"It's not me," Sherlock complained. "We wouldn't need any mediation if the two of you would just realize that I'm right and do things my way."

"He's serious," G huffed out, frustrated, before turning to Sherlock. "You really can't value the opinion of anyone other than yourself, can you? You're just not bloody capable!"

"I am capable of advanced analysis that makes the mere consideration of human opinion pale in comparison," Sherlock sniffed. "However I find it to be of little to no value, therefore I dismiss it as a waste of my time."

"I can't talk to him!" G railed to John. "You knock some sense into him before I lose it entirely."

"First," John said, trying to stay calm, "tell me how this whole row started."

"We were at the Doyle Street crime scene when Sherlock figured out the case. He could have easily pulled me aside and told me what happened, but no! He waited until he'd drawn the biggest audience of police and public from the scene then proceeded to expound his theory to the heavens, making the police - and me - look like idiots."

"Rubbish!" Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I made sure the public wasn't within earshot. I am a professional."

"Sherlock," John turned to him next, "is there something G's done to perturb you?"

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his chin down to his neck, looking ever bit the petulant schoolboy.

"He won't allow me access to the MacPherson case files."

"That's too political a case!" G exclaimed. "It has to be handled very carefully and quietly."

John put out his hands to them for silence.

"Sherlock, can G and I - as your significant others - ask for the tiny boon of hearing your crime theories first before the general populace and by populace I mean police department? It would mean a great deal to us and it would be a small reward for all the support we give you without expecting any thanks for it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, but only in cases where time is not so urgent that harm may be done if I delay."

"Very well," John agreed before turning to G. "And if Sherlock swears he won't breath a words about the MacPherson case to anyone other than you or I? Can he read the case files?"

"Do you swear?" G asked.

Sherlock raised his hand in mock oath format. "I do solemnly swear."

"Fine." G nodded formally. "That's fair. I can deal with that."

John let out a long breath.

"Goodness, how is it that when you two fight, I'm the one who's exhausted afterwards?"

"No clue," Sherlock said, bounding up. "I feel energized. Now, let's go get my files!"

 

 **Put things back where you found them.**

"Bloody hell," G cursed under his breath. He'd gotten dressed for work in the early morning cold while Sherlock still dozed after a late night, John had gotten up - tucked into his favorite plaid bathrobe - to make G some tea before he hurried off to the call of Scotland Yard.

"What is it?" John asked.

"I can't find my ID," he answered as he patted down his coat.

John put the kettle aside after pouring his own cup of tea.

"You and Sherlock get into a bit of a row after I called it a night?"

"A bit," G admitted. "He wants in on my new case, but the brass says no."

John chortled quietly. "Yes, he's not likely to take that well, our Sherlock." He turned to G, an apologetic little grin on his face. "Has it occurred to you that he lifted your ID again because he was peeved at you?"

"It wasn't my fault!" G protested then slumped, defeated. "Since when has that mattered to Sherlock Holmes."

"Wait here." John patted G on the arm then headed into the bedroom where Sherlock slept, still as a stone. Making sure he was still asleep, he passed into the bathroom and took all the nicotine patches from the cupboard and hid them in the hollowed out medical books on his shelf, the ones with such dreadfully boring names even Sherlock wouldn't accidentally use them as references.

Returning to the bedroom, he gave the sleeping genius a rough shove.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, turning over away from John.

"Cough up G's ID. He needs to go to work."

"What he needs is to learn some manners."

"Come on now," John poked him again, making him bat his hand away, "give it over."

"No."

"Fine then." John stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then I'm not telling you where I hid your nicotine patches."

The body under the blanket went still and silent for a few seconds.

"In the pocket of that ugly green cardigan you never wear anymore in the back of the closet."

John checked the closet and returned with the ID.

"Thank you."

"What about my patches?"

"They'll find their way back... In about as much time as G's ID was out of his possession."

John wouldn't have admitted it, but he rather enjoyed the frustrated noise that arose from the bed as he left the room and gave G his ID and a kiss to send him off on his day.

 

 **Clean up your own mess.**

The text is what got John to rush home. G wasn't prone to over-excitement; they'd both gotten used to Sherlock coming and going at all hours without explanation, but this was clearly more serious.

'@Flat. No S. Pls tell me you've seen him.'

John had punched back a harried 'N BRH' and dashed out, barely calling out to the front desk that he needed to go home early - family emergency. Let them try to suss that out as they may, knowing he didn't live with anyone traditionally known as family.

Running into the flat, he followed G's eyes to where he was staring down at the rug and stopped cold.

A massive pool of blood lay atop the already reddish toned rug, too much blood...

John staggered, putting out his hand and luckily finding a wall there.

"I'm pretty sure it's pig's blood," G intoned, his voice tight as if it was taking a great deal of effort to appear unemotional. "At least I hope it is. There are bags from a butcher in the kitchen."

John just nodded, still uncertain of speech just yet.

"I haven't seen him all day," he finally forced out. "I've no clue what he was working on."

"I've been phoning him since lunchtime," G admitted. "After hours of him not answering I thought I'd pop by and see if he was..." He shrugged. "And I found this." He finally turned to look at John. "I broke down and put in a call to Mycroft."

"You know how much he hates us using his brother to find him," John said.

"And Sherlock knows how much we hate being kept in the dark." G's voice was gruff, more with concern than real annoyance. "Damn him!"

A text came through on both their cell phones at once and they hurried to answer.

"Mycroft?" G confirmed and John nodded.

The text read: 'S seen leaving flat 35 mins ago alone and fine. Pls advise.'

"I'll let him know it's probably a false alarm," G offered, texting back.

He'd barely put his phone away when the door burst open and Sherlock strode through, barely acknowledging the both of them with a glance before lowering himself to the floor to examine his blood puddle.

"Extraordinary. These new microfibers really do affect the absorption rate for synthetics versus organic fibers." He got up and made a note on a pad on his desk and then turned to find John and G staring at him with grave expressions. "What? I'll clean it up when it's done. That's the rule isn't it? I get to have my experiments as long as I clean them up when I'm done?" His voice held a mocking tone as if they'd treated him like a child.

"Sherlock, suppose I'd brought you in on a case where a husband came home to find his wife missing and only a pool of blood remaining," G began, remarkably keeping his temper cool.

"And you can tell at a glance that that volume of blood could not have come from one human body," John added, "without that person dying."

"What would you imagine the husband would think of his wife's condition? What would you have me tell him?"

Sherlock turned and opened his mouth to answer then halted before a sound came out. John and G had to have both been giving him identical glares for him to get the picture.

"It's not my fault you jumped to a conclusion," he said defensively.

"No, but it's your fault for not answering your bloody cell all day!" G railed. "And for not letting us in on this so called experiment ahead of time."

"Good god, Sherlock," John said out of exasperation. "You're the most brilliant man I know! You can fully enter the mind of a criminal and suss out their innermost thoughts. How can you not be able to put yourself in your flatmate's shoes and consider how we might see this, unprepared?"

Sherlock cocked his head at the blood.

"Right then. Next time I'll be sure to leave behind the butcher's receipt for the blood. Would you like it in the kitchen or taped to a chair beside the pool?"

"What we want," John stressed. "Is a little consideration."

"And I wouldn't say no to dinner out as an apology," G added, his expression sour as he glanced down at the pig's blood. "I've no chance of an appetite while that's still in the flat."

"Fine, let's go then." Sherlock ushered them towards the door as John glanced back.

"You are cleaning that up tonight, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered, holding the door for them and heading out behind them. "As long as the blood reaches a minimum 20 percent saturation rate by midnight..."

 

 **Don't take things that aren't yours.**

"Hand it over."

"What? Oh." Sherlock pulled John's Browning pistol out of his robe pocket and handed it to him.

"Now, we talked about this back when you first shot up Mrs. Hudson's walls. There was to be no more shooting in the house." John stopped, shaking his head. "I can't believe we're even having this conversation."

"We're having it now because G's not due to come by for another hour," Sherlock pointed out. "How much longer do you think he's going to be able to pretend not to know you've got an unregistered handgun?"

"A hell of a lot longer if you don't go firing it off for no reason in our home!" John's voice rose on the final words. "Honestly, if I didn't know you I'd think you'd gone mad."

"I have gone mad!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Mad with boredom!"

"Then get up..." John pulled Sherlock to his feet. "Get dressed..." He pushed him towards the bedroom, following to make sure he went. "And go do something!"

"What? Make a case out of thin air?" Sherlock protested.

"No! Do something useful to prepare for a future case," John suggested. "You've got this amazing network of homeless people? Why not build another network to function at a different level? I can't tell you how often receptionists and security guards are the ones in a company who know what's really going on."

"Brilliant! Why didn't I think of that?" Sherlock flung his robe off and started moving about the room, looking for clothes to wear.

"You were too busy being invested in being bored," John told him, fishing his second clip of ammunition out of Sherlock's discarded robe pocket. "And you're welcome."

"Suddenly I'm glad I borrowed your gun," Sherlock piped up as he pulled off his pajama top and pulled on a button-up shirt.

"Sherlock?" John said, his tone dark. "Don't do it again. My suggestion next time might be less on how to keep busy and more as to where to shove it."

Sherlock chuckled as he buttoned up his shirt.

"Duly warned."

 

 **Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.**

It had all turned into a fight when they got home, only oddly between John and Sherlock.

G just stared through it all, the events of the day repeating themselves as cruel reruns behind his eyes even when they were shut: the shooter surrendering his weapon, Wallace and the team making entry to subdue the suspect, the unexpected shot that shouldn't have happened, the second shot that meant one of his men had taken down the shooter, the call for a medic - officer down...

He wasn't even sure at what point John was at in berating Sherlock for his insensitive behavior at the crime scene. He just got up and walked to the bedroom, leaving them behind, to crawl into bed despite little chance of sleep.

 _Of course the shooter had more than one gun! Knowing his military history, the size and shape of his duffle bag and the buttoning of his jacket it was obvious even if you don't count his long history of resentment of authority figures, especially law enforcement, and his obvious desire to end it all via police-assisted suicide!_

Sherlock's words rambled in his head until he heard the door open. He wasn't in the mood for this - either more of Sherlock's damned logic or John's sorrowful comfort.

A throat cleared. Sherlock then. G waited to hear what he had to say, bracing himself for more pain and guilt.

"John tells me," Sherlock began, coughing into his fist, "that you're feeling responsible for Wallace's death."

G said nothing. Only someone that brilliant could find something so obvious so elusive to comprehend.

The bed shifted and as much as he wanted to withdraw, G couldn't help but feel solace in the warm arms that enveloped him. Sherlock had never been good with emotions, but whenever G needed him on his side he'd been steadfast and loyal, always there.

"I didn't mean to hurt you when I pointed out the second gun issue." G stiffened at Sherlock's words, but he continued. "I only meant to explain to you how you could observe more closely so that in the future you would not be taken by surprise again."

Sherlock drew closer, his breath warm against the back of G's neck, his lips pressed against his skin in the barest whisper of a kiss.

"I'm sorry."

G wanted to speak, to respond, but it was all he could do to breathe.

So while he drew in each long shuddering breath, he let Sherlock learn his own lesson by letting him feel the grief in every inhalation.

 

 **Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.**

"Must he make that infernal noise every time?"

Sherlock buried his head under a pillow to make his point, but John just continued sipping his morning tea and perusing the newspaper.

"I rather like hearing G sing in the shower." John turned the page, not even looking up. "It's rather homey and besides, it means he's in a good mood."

"Oh, it's all right as long as he's in a good mood? What about the quiet I need to concentrate?" Sherlock pouted.

"You'll get plenty of quiet once G leaves for work in about..." John glanced at the clock just as they heard the water turn off in the shower. "five minutes or so." When Sherlock stood and headed for the bedroom, John halted him with a hand on his arm. "Don't you go in there and tell him not to sing anymore."

"Give me one good reason why not," Sherlock countered.

"The violin." John looked up at Sherlock, smug. "G and I put up with you playing the violin at all hours so we expect you to man up and deal with the things we do that you don't fancy."

"Like playing around with your little blog?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I rather think you secretly like that." John chuckled. "But I have seen you roll your eyebrows when I have the radio on and dance around the kitchen while making dinner."

"You call that dancing?"

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock caved with visible reluctance and went and sat back down.

"I play the violin exceedingly well."

"And G's not a bad singer, so let it go. If it makes him happy..."

"Well, I'm off!" G came out, fully dressed, pausing to give John a kiss on the cheek. "How about dinner out tonight if a case doesn't crop up?"

"Sounds fantastic," John enthused. "There's a new Indian place nearby that's getting great reviews from the critics."

"Indian, then? What say you Sherlock? Does that sound good to you?" They both turned to see his reaction, John giving him a meaningful glare.

He just smiled back at them, eyes more on John than G.

"Like music to my ears."


End file.
